Whatever you call 'uneventful', MacLeod
by Be3
Summary: Methos broods, Richie frets, MacLeod cares, and Penguin Classics are mutilated. Nearly fluff.


Sometimes, he likens his acquaintances to people he had known centuries ago. He can foresee their moves, accept their decisions - there is little he hasn't encountered on his winding path to humanism, - point out some primitive mistakes of his fledgling actors, who play by ear. He only plays by ear when the stakes are too high, or when the mood is upon him.

(_The fey mood_, as some Oxonian Professor so aptly wrote.)

Try as he might, he wouldn't be able to shed that innermost layer of thinking which served him during his early years. He was born into a world so young myths hadn't been dubbed a 'concept' yet.

He died in the world, too. Probably contributed to its wealth of old wives' tales by resurrecting time and again. He shudders to have populated Hades with heroes and loved ones to explain to his companions of the day his sudden sputtering into life.

It used to be a miracle. People today, Immortals especially, regard it as a technicality, as a means to fulfill something they spent years to postpone, or forget, or dream about. There was this guy he saved from a car accident who told him he was going to fix plumbing in the kitchen first thing when they released him from ICU. It could be shock talking, though, or some kind of mortal humour he didn't catch on.

He only allows himself these brief bouts of introspection when he knows his head isn't in the danger of being disconnected from the rest of him, MacLeod's couch, a beer and a book.

(Achilles owed him big time for that 'Shoot him in the heel!' rubbish; what further location from the truly vulnerable one? Of course, he had to adjust to a crippled student who hadn't appreciated his kindness and cleverness and never fully recovered, but in the end, it was worth it. The Greek proved Lameness itself to be a metaphysical problem (which is what any decent Greek would do). And he could always praise himself as a co-author of the Iliad.)

Reading sometimes triggers most bizarre visions (hell, reading itself has been bizarre for so long a time it seems strange to not have to hide even the harmless part of his library). He grins as he imagines Rebecca fighting some righteous prig like that fat baron from _Ivanhoe_ (he sold the story - with a few modifications - for a pint of ale, insisting that the Wizard of the North preserve the original name.)

"Methos?"

"Yeah?"

"You look like you could do with a -"

"Drink!"

"Lunch."

MacLeod squats beside the couch and waves something which smells of tomatoes and cheese and white bread before his nose, as if he is one thousandth of his actual age.

"I'd take lunch and drink any day before drunk and lynch," MacLeod mutters sagely.

Damn the Good Samaritan! For a moment, he is undecided if he is responsible for that fable, too, but honestly, in the Really Old Days he had other views on life. He spares the sandwich a glance. Maybe he could indulge Mac, this time.

"Mhmm, yummy."

Mac straightens out, glad to get an actual response from his recently reticent self (reticent-er, he corrects himself - or he would if it didn't sound like a hospice. He is justifiably proud of the alliteration, though.)

"Reading?"

He nods, setting the battered volume aside. Why do people reverse to stating the obvious when he has the unfortunate impulse to brood?

MacLeod, ever the optimist, picks it up and chuckles in surprise when he sees the cover. Surprise and - mischief?

"Sir Gawain and the Green Knight?"

He contemplates all the ways to tell Mac go mind his own business, except that the barge is where said business would be minded anyway. When he raises his eyes, Mac is worried. The man is such an uptight freak and so easy to read, he sometimes wonders why he hadn't applied for a traffic-controller job. Then again, maybe Mac had, and they refused him on the grounds of his numerous runs-in with police all over the world. Desperate for a distraction, he sneers and makes to grab the book, which of course isn't there when his deliberately slow grasp sails upward.

A fair warning is what tradition prescribes.

"I shall whine."

"No way. You can't." Here comes the wiggling finger.

"Yes I can!"

"No you can't!"

This is undignified. He lets his hand to fall down.

He won't give his opponent the satisfaction of an answer.

Mac sighs.

"I have an appointment -"

"Great!"

"But I shall be back by two o'clock."

"Don't forget to close the door. And tell Joe I'm feeling fine, thank you."

Mac shakes his head and disappears, leaving the book within his reach and mumbling something about ungrateful dotards.

When the host is no longer an immediate threat to his hard-won laziness, he leaps into the air and begins an exhaustive routine of earning strength and flexibility, one he has never taught to a student. Let them sweat out traditionally, prideful Scots.

In two hours, he is once more recumbent, tired, washed, and bored. Even the beer, the beer itself doesn't appeal to him. Disinterestedly, he picks up the book again. Penguin Classics. Why would Duncan MacLeod prefer it to a reprint is beyond his comprehension - no, it is beyond his ken. That's better.

He flips the pages, admitting grudgingly that the translation is not half bad, even though they had to include a glossary the size of an income declaration form. Unbelievably, some words are circled by a mechanical pencil, which he knows MacLeod has a liking for, and there are question marks on the margins. Has Mac lost it? He can't be sure, but the markings seem recent. His eyes widen when he sees a dog-eared page, but there's no denying the characteristic crease in the paper.

Well. Just let him tell Joe about it. Maybe the Watcher knows what pushed the Highlander over the edge. Mac is so young; people shouldn't go barmy at four hundred!

He contemplates calling Joe, but the situation, though dire, doesn't seem life-threatening. Earth-shattering, perhaps, but he could (and had) live with earth-shattering. He will break the news gently, preferably in person.

It seems such a waste, though. The noble spirit, crushed by the world's weight. Time, the Green Knight which can't be conquered, has slain Gawain the Chivalrous with his last stroke in their mockery of a duel. Hmm, so there's Gawain, Amanda bears a strong resemblance to the Lady...

He sinks into the cushions, genuine regret on his features, and settles in to silently mourn the loss of a man he has grown to consider his friend. However, just as he prepares for a long, old-style eulogy, he is rudely interrupted. Again. The Buzz of an Immortal fills his head, and he draws his bastard sword from under the couch.

The intruder proves to be Richie Ryan, the Inconsequent Annoyance. Young Richie has learned enough to enter armed, but lowers his weapon upon seeing Adam Pierson.

"Hi. Mac home?'

"Will be by two."

Richie flops down on a chair. "Man, he'll kill me."

Now that inspiration deserted him, he might as well ask what ails the youth.

"What have you done this time?"

But suddenly, if not unexpectedly, Richie is no longer listening. Face lighting up with joy, he yanks Penguin Classics from Methos's limp hand.

"You found it! Thanks, pal!"

Oh, dear.

If there's one thing he will miss when their roads diverge, it certainly won't be excitement.


End file.
